half a ticket

it's not unconventional, if it's all been done before,
but denial leaves belief cold shut outside the theater door.
blame's blanket cloaks warmly like your mother taught
to keep a lonely heart on revue with distracted thought.
fear keeps poor company with empty seats of the past
and squanders the spot light of both audience and cast.
angry applause remembered like roses thrown on stage
waited for an encore before erupting in disgust and rage.

present with no past

The pages are all past tense;

etched in sketched permanence

were the reprehensible sensible

to the conscious mind

instead of luridly lurking

for a midnight subconscious find.

Burnt books stoke prurient interest

in flailing fires of flame’s incest

because if the last past

is no longer written,

then there’s no need

for the coals to cool as if never smitten.

phase ii

the smiles disappear beneath
my graying beard that itches:
the will to scratch my malaise
remains elusive as it switches.
my faint reflection keeps watch
in the backyard window at dark:
ghostly floating capturing a picture
that is more tangible than its mark.
no hands can stroke the weariness
that has settled on my shoulder:
blackbird doesn't show in the glass,
but, pecks and turns me colder.
heady beginnings consummate with sallow
finally yielding birth to dust in earthly fallow.

summer shadows

The overwrought grin and creep
To write their way to sin and sleep.
From little fingers come little pencils
To co-opt what lingers with co-opted stencils.

So shall dearth be death despite stolen breath;
but, stay as stolen token--
abided, perhaps, by memory's sullen choking?

And the moral is, no morals are;
it is but coral, no sky of stars.

seussian restraints

what good is could

if it should

or can't or won't

unless you don't

because of the one,

the only "some day" one.

so say good bye

and sigh

and cry.

black lullaby

Sing me a lullaby

And watch me close my eyes

That will never open again.

You could have chosen any

Words, but those.

Sing another song for yesterday-

Another song for you.

looking up at the tree

The mind unfettered

throws the seeds to Earth:

chewing gauntlets of husks,

beneath a growing dusk,

that deign dig their way free.

Do you see what I see?

Or, is text in context all you believe?

Our blood pulses with purpose

even bound by tourniquet,

roots seek soil anomalous

with our smiles of academic etiquette.

And

And you slipped through my life

And my hands

And shattered on the ground

And and and

I can’t put you back together.

Your pieces cut my hands.

an interruption

you call me awkward and afraid
preening for permission to be free.
i can remove the nails, but not the cross,
so while you bleed, you're bleeding me.

each night is another grieving struggle
that leaves you damp with anticipation.
will it be brushed back tears and escape
or fumbling and fucking toward emancipation?

monlogue for a dialogue

Tell me what you know of life

And I can tell you who’s the fool

Teach me what you’ve learned

And I can preach there’s no need for school.

Show me all that is

And we’ll see all that isn’t

Know me and you can feel

Everything you didn’t.

only two of us in the room

I dither, I blather,

oh what the hell is the matter

With me.

My eyes tease my heart

And my lungs are tight

Your weeping skin calls

For my touching kiss tonight.

I’m a shell of selfish shame

It’s pain, it’s hell all the same.

Memories of a little southern girl with a ribbon in her hair

His arms are tree trunks with hairs to play.

Every day like this is some sunny Sunday.

The peeling white fence by the reedy dunes.

Salty breezes warmed by languid afternoons.

A julep sweating and resting on his knee.

We sit on the porch, staring at daddy’s sea.

Mint wafts from his glass smelling sweet and tart.

I nestle close, squirming my head on daddy’s heart.

Until the morrow comes in sorrow’s droves,

And daddy leaves because daddies always go.

Haven't had any impressionist pieces in a while. This Renoir is a great return I think, although not what I would consider one of his classics. I'm very interested in feedback on this one, it's a complete departure for me. It's interesting because the poem started off as a different idea in my head and morphed into this. It's funny to see how these things turn out; half of the time, I have no idea until it's done. The rhythm and construction was very deliberate-- let me know if you think it helps or hurts the delivery. Can you "see" this poem's image? I wanted it to be graphically descriptive, but not overwhelming.

the evening after

the evening after the heady rush
is a mourning dark before pink blush,
but until then lies cold and prickly
while our dreams feel cold and sickly.
these loose covers stifle and prolong night
when you're lying lonely with no sight.
where wont is want and wonder wrong;
happily, hopefully will we find our song.

dreams to come

I am the dreamer,
and I am the dreams,
cloaked in erotic twilight
with a sun between the seams.
My thoughts are my actions
Soaring beyond open-eyed sight;
they feel real in your arms
that cradle me through the night.
Cling and hold me when I come
Before night recedes
and the dream is undone.

Life is a Myth

Eros is dying together
to save Psyche from
Hell's empty cold
and striving forward
as Sisyphus
or Orpheus trusting bold.
Don’t look back,
carry your Herculean
burden without complaint
and not stolen
by Celaeno
or Charon’s decaying taint.

Mythology Primer:
I switched back and forth between the Latin and Greek names depending on how it suited me.

Eros – commonly known as Cupid represents love.

Psyche – the most beautiful woman in the world, so beautiful that Aphrodite/Venus grew jealous and sent Eros to make her fall in love with the ugliest thing he could devise. Instead, he took one look at her and fell in love himself. One of the tasks she undertakes involves going to the Underworld, ie – Hell. Starting to see how it all comes together. ;)

Sisyphus – a mortal cursed by Zeus to an eternity in Tartarus (a hellish part of the underworld) of rolling up a boulder to the top of a hill that continually rolls back down.

Orpheus – his wife, Eurydice, dies from a snake bite. He mourns her through his songs which are so bittersweet that he is advised to go to the underworld to convince Hades and Persephone. They agree on the condition that he goes back without looking back at her.

Hercules / Heracles– the premier mythological hero who was set multiple tasks by the Gods to prove himself, the twelve labors (it started as 10, but Eurystheus was a jealous asshole) (from wiki – I’m continually amazed how much accurate information that place has, wow, it had all of them in a nice little column):
1. The Nemean Lion.
2. The Lernaean Hydra.
3. The Ceryneian Hind.
4. The Erymanthian Boar.
5. The Augean Stables.
6. The Stymphalian Birds.
7. The Cretan Bull.
8. The Mares of Diomedes.
9. The Girdle of Hippolyte.
10. The Cattle of Geryon.
11. The Apples of Hesperides.
12. The Capture of Cerberus.

Celaeno – “the dark(ness)” – one of the three harpies that plagued Phineas. Thought to be the physical manifestation of the destructive nature of the wind—swooping down to constantly hound.

Charon – the ferryman in Hades who ferried souls across the river, Acheron-the river of woe, for the payment of a a coin (an obol or obulus). The Greeks and Romans would bury the dead with a coin under their tongue for this payment.

Another poem based on mythology I did some time ago. Similar themes are presented. Maybe this is a March ritual? A different kind of circadian rhythm? Acheron

I began this poem many months ago. On that note, I’m going to digress to close out this post. All art has a self-referential core that is the thread of integrity enabling a coherent product. However, I would ask not to presume to know this underlying piece. I have 40-50 pieces that I’m working on at any particular moment covering a wide spectrum of emotion, thought, and spirit. On my half, I promise to provide attendant notice of anything too disturbing that it is outside of me. I don’t want to provoke any unnecessary anxiety, only the necessary kind. ;)

Marathon

To get up to see,

To run what’s real

And breathe,

And feel,

And live

With each step

Through the pain.

When your lungs burn

You still push through

And go

Forward.

couples in a restaurant

So many are two

Man and woman

Woman and woman

Man and man

I wonder

if that is who they will spend forever with?
if they love each other with an intense passion?
if their dream sits across the table?

Or is it just dinner?

It's all about you

Worship your chosen gods

With ersatz genuflection and understanding.

Outstretched on marble delivering mixed messages of hope

Tinged with fear and flight.

So, say a prayer, say something

Based on faith.

The Moral of Mephistopheles

I can just because I can

Don't ask why

Has there ever been a need to?

Moral turbidity and turpitude is

No small rejoinder of this servitude.

If it’s honesty you seek

I’ll have it from the weak.

Pandering to this hypocrisy

Would be less than me,

But more than you.

I've been working on this poem for months. It was inspired by the movie, Thank you for Smoking. Great movie if you haven't seen it, highly recommended (A-).

mirror?

Where is the know-it-all smile

that you offered so deliciously before?

Who fired the first shot?

Or does it even matter anymore?

You sit so quietly with your barbed wire serenity

and no one allowed in.

You were beautiful in your frailty

once etched by a confident, razor grin.

What shrine do you pray to or protect?

It looks like an empty well from here.

And maybe that's why

you really look away in fear.

When I think of you,

I picture flashing white over blushing skin;

Is there absolution in red?

Or have you left that too with your sin.